Horrors.There is no other wordFor the things I have seen,And sat helplessly by—Useless. My own son, ripped from my armsBy a force I could not
I cannot tellWhat these gestures mean.Why do you all waveYour hands at me? I can only guess atThe words on your lipsAnd can only makeVain attemptsTo
People just keep goingAround, across, Any way they can.Directionless,They do not notice the manWho motionless,Waits. They step over me, Their limbs stretching usefullyEven as they
Unclean,I hide myself.Lest I am seenAnd sent away,Purged from the cityWhile dogs and rats are allowedTo stay and hide in its alleys, Infect its crevices.
As so often happens, life took priority over poetry. Indeed, I fear this is one of the reasons I am not destined to be the
My bones ache with hunger.My eyes strain from seeking.But seeking what? Waiting for what?For nothing,For who would help me today?This is the sad irony of